


yes, tomorrow brings the darkness

by proximally



Series: abandoned works [13]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Episode: e060-066 The Stolen Century Parts 1-7, Gen, Thirteenth Doctor Era, and also post whichever cycle the lichification happened in, or intended as 13th era anyway. not that anybody appears in the parts i actually wrote dfghj, post-cycle 65, technically canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: Of all the many aliens that have visited planet Earth, these might be the strangest.
Series: abandoned works [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981928
Kudos: 9
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	yes, tomorrow brings the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> title from the lyrics of rejoice by The Garages. yes that's a blaseball song. what of it.
> 
> written in December 2018 in a single sitting. genuinely don't know where i was going with this one except "the doctor gets to be the most confused person in the room for once".
> 
> if you'd like to take the concept and run with it, please feel free! i'd really appreciate this being linked back to though.

The first they know of it, it’s a silver streak whistling through the upper atmosphere over Western Siberia. From the ground, it just looks like a passing plane - maybe a little higher, a little smaller, a little faster. Even the way it just... _appeared_ , isn’t new, not these days, not with spaceships over London, planets in the sky, and all the myriad other extraterrestrial phenomena. 

No, what has the radar jockeys scrambling is the total lack of emissions. There’s no energy surge, no abrupt heat, no residue, no waste - it’s unlike any type of teleportation the Earth has seen before. It’s like the ship - assuming it’s a ship - hoping it’s not a missile - was there the whole time, and just simply became visible to their scanners. Which is worrying, to say the least. It raises the question of _what if there’s more?_ and, worse, _what else aren’t we seeing?_

It starts to slow as it passes over Europe, and its altitude drops; the Prime Minister of Great Britain sighs, because apparently it’s just that time of year again. The aliens had left off the last few Christmases and they’d all hoped that, streak broken, that would be the end of it. But no. Of course not. They’re starting to wonder if there’s some sort of alien beacon under London at this point.

* * *

An interesting cycle, is cycle 87. Not that they’ve seen much of this plane yet, but its orbit is an absolute cluttered mess, and cities sprawl out beneath them like the cell bodies of neurons. Ships larger than any they’ve seen pepper the seas, and Davenport actually has to swerve once to avoid a ship not totally unlike their own - if the Starblaster had flat wings and was _many_ times larger.

It’s the first place so very clearly more technologically advanced than the society they’ve come from, which is simultaneously a concern and a comfort - they’re probably outgunned if it comes down to a fight, but if things go better retrieving the Light shouldn’t be too much of a hassle. Either way, choosing a place to land is not going well.

“--big city, more eyes, more chance of spotting the Light, it makes _sense_ \--”

“Are you _mad_ , we’d probably cause a _riot_ \--”

“--should start small, get the lay of the land, if you know what I--”

 _“Oh my god can we just land anywhere_ **_please_ ** _.”_

Davenport has, by now, been tuned out for about fifteen minutes. He has it down to an art. He is very carefully scanning the landscape for areas open enough to land in, and unlikely to cause too much ill-will if they do. He brings them down in what he’s pretty sure is an empty, unused field - no apparent livestock or crops, doesn’t seem either cursed or sacred (boy have _those_ come up a lot).

Eventually, the crew stop squabbling and Davenport starts listening again. Perhaps a little late, because they’re all looking at him expectantly.

“Yes?” he says, hesitantly. He immediately regrets this, because he could’ve just agreed to literally anything with six witnesses and more than anything, he should know better than that.

“Damn, shoulda asked for a puppy,” says Magnus. There’s a pause. Then: “ _Can_ -”

“No.”

“But-”

_“No.”_

“Yeah, moving on from Puppy Persuasion Power Hour, the actual question: what’s our plan of attack here, Cap’n’port?”

“I vote Magnus!” says Magnus, hand airborne before Taako can even finish his sentence.

Davenport wrinkles his nose in doubt. “I dunno, bud, you _do_ have a black eye - not sure that’d give the right impression.”

Magnus pouts. The black eye is a pain in the, well, _face_ and he almost regrets getting punched. Almost. It was a pretty great night. (He’s not going to think about how it was the last night on his homeworld. He’s _definitely_ not going to think about how it’s been 87 years since then, or how he spent well under a quarter of his life there, or that he’ll be 107 in a few months. Nope. Not thinking about that at _all._ )

“May I propose Strategy: The Least Threatening Man In The Universe?” says Lup, gesturing dramatically at her boyfriend.

“I never agreed to that title.”

“It’s a _great_ title.” There’s a chorus of agreement. Barry huffs.

* * *

Barry is pushed outside. Lucretia, in the role of moral support, is about to follow, but the Least Threatening Man in the Universe earns his name and slips on the ramp, landing ass-first in the cold, dewy grass. It is not an auspicious start. 

Even less auspicious is the arrival of several...carriages? Well, vehicles of of some description. They’re large. They’re full of humans in uniform. A safe bet, perhaps, that they’re military come to investigate and/or neutralise the alien invaders.

(Lucretia wrestles with the urge to run. _This is not cycle 65,_ she tells herself, consciously evening out her breaths. The rest of the crew is safe on the ship. Even if they’re not, Lup and Barry won’t stay dead. It’s fine. They have failsafes now, backup plans. _This is not cycle 65._ Lucretia takes an involuntary step back.)

The native soldiers take up positions in a loose ring around the ship - and wow, they seem really well-rehearsed - and level their weapons. Neither Barry nor Lucretia so much as twitch, though both are practically vibrating with anxiety and Barry’s trousers are nearly soaked through.

One human steps forward through the ring. Even without the cue of a different uniform, just their posture gave them away as an authority: straight-backed, stern-faced, step confident. 

“State your purpose, and identify yourselves,” they command.

“Um,” says Barry, helpfully.

“Crew of the Starblaster, from the Institute of Planar Research and Exploration,” says Lucretia, doing her best to project total serenity. It’s pretty good.

“And your purpose?”

Here, she hesitates. How do you concisely and comprehensibly explain 87 years of fleeing from a monstrous plane-devouring being? The vitality of their retrieving the Light of Creation? Being essential to the continued existence of this plane without coming across as threatening?

“We bear a warning,” she says eventually. “Something is coming. It will consume your plane as it consumed ours, and many before and since. We wish only to help.”

“‘Plane’?” they ask, brows knitting together. Lucretia feels her own tense.

“The Prime Material Plane?” prompts Barry from the ground. “One of the twelve planes? The one we’re on? Also, can I get up now please? This grass is very wet.”

The officer nods, slowly, clearly not following. Which is weird, considering the level of technology here.

“Sir! Movement in the ship!” calls one of the soldiers, and the modicum of relief evaporates like the morning mist. 

“How many are you? And what species?”

“Seven, sir,” says Lucretia, “Including us. We are a mixed-race crew: three humans, two elves, one gnome, one dwarf.” She turns, as much as she dares, to the still-open hatch in the Starblaster’s side, and raises her voice. “We’re coming out, slowly, and we are _leaving_ our foci and weapons. We are not here for violence.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Taco? Like the food?”
> 
> “You hear that Mags, I’ve been here five minutes and I already have a dish named after me, that’s how we _do.”_


End file.
